


Remedy for Ennui

by epochryphal



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Choking, Dacryphilia, Dubious Consent, Forced Incest, Horror, Incest, M/M, Magic, Meta, Mind Control, Multi, Nightmares, No Genitals, POV Fuckery, Possession, Shame, Sibling Incest, You're Blue Now, unreality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 06:06:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5279630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epochryphal/pseuds/epochryphal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dull.  Lackluster.  Dreary.</p>
<p>Sans's soul could use some stimulation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remedy for Ennui

Fade in.

Sans is moaning fit to shake apart.

He's stretched out, limbs wide, pinned in all the right places and not even offering tacit resistance.  Just trembling in place, clenching and laxing, getting louder all the while.  The vocals are past words at this point, long since devolved to mere naked longing.  Eyes open but unseeing, spine arching in a perfect parabola, each ripple runs all the way through him like waves crashing back into rumpled sheets until they're building together now, overlapping frequencies wreaking glorious chaos on his hapless frame.  To and fro and both and neither til there's no direction anymore, only further and further onward, further and further beyond, up and straining and grasping and reaching and reaching and becoming and—

No.  No, no, no.

This is the climax.

No good without buildup.

_Shift._

 

*

 

Somewhen, an overzealous voice recommends an inn over a line.

"...brother kept making 100's of midnight snacks.  And Papyrus himself doesn't??  Know how to sleep?  Yeah, just sleep here."

Potential relevance.  Tag, file for ~~future~~ reference.

 

*

 

Sans is screaming fit to shake apart.

He's crumpled up, fetal position, holding himself together by the dubitable power of greasy sheets.  They muffle his cries, though they're considerably less effective than a blue sound barrier.  Ah.  Another power-based nightmare, of course.  The kind that leave him most vulnerable.

And indeed, there are already tendrils slipping through cracks, unfelt as a shadow.  Coiling into the space of his misery, they swell unhampered by any light in his skull, coating him in a greater dark.  Just watching is like feeling it all over again for the first and nth time.  Now a wisp licks up tears; here he chokes on a whimper sapped of its strength; there a hand poises, set to wring every sweet drop of hurt from his pathetic form.

The door slams open and all of that dissipates.

"Brother!  What's wrong???"

Sans is ever a quick recoverer, shrugging off the haze of post-terror with all the practice of the haunted.  "sup?" he asks without a quaver.  Stoic Sans, all unbroken again.  Infuriating.  And captivating.

"You know what "sup"— never mind.  You were shouting!!  Almost as loudly as my resting voice!"  Or something like that: humorous line, mistakable for self-deprecation only by those unfamiliar with the utterly predictable.  Difficult to summon much effort to care about the details of this...interruption.

"heh.  just had an exciting dream i guess.  what, was i cheering for the wrong team?"

"There was very little cheer to your yelling!  Quite the opposite in fact."  Apparently intent on dragging this out, the interloper steps to the side of the bed and peers down.  "Sans, are you all right?"

There both is and isn't a fractional lessening to his smile.  Finesse as always.  "'m fine, bro.  aren't you usually on volunteer patrol all night?"

"Fortunately, I was taking a break outside to think up some puzzles!"  Something something, more enthusiastic rambling; honestly it's all the same after a point.  A long-passed point.  Might be time for a scene change.

"wait, what?

"You heard me!  The Great Papyrus will guard your sleep!!!  After all, protecting the town includes protecting my dearest brother!!"

Ah.  That's why this particular scene. A pivot point.

"...ok."

"No excuses!!!!"  Comedic pause.  "Wait, what???"

"you can guard me."  Trademark wink.  "but i get to teach you how to sleep."

Predictable complaints, genial banter, enough of this.

_Shift._

 

*

 

Presently, another overzealous voice crowds onto a signal.

“…when do YOU sleep?”

“I’m usually too busy to sleep. Why???”

Redundant. Purge.

Cut to next already.

 

*

 

Sans’s laughing fit could shake the bed apart.

He’s doubled over, clutching his sides, wheezing like he ran a block for the first time in his life. Just laughing and laughing, tears streaming from his sockets, with no sign of stopping. If his bed wasn’t a ratty mattress on the floor, he’d risk breaking some springs. As is, it’s looking extra defeated and lifeless – for once a stark contrast with its owner.

Such rare happiness. A sweet taste to be savored, for sure.

And best complemented by bitter.

“??????????”

Yes, well. The other one’s there, too.

“bro,” Sans finally chokes out. “bro, that’s. that’s exactly what – you can’t just – fuck,” and he’s back to being incapacitated by laughter. Such a pretty extreme; he always does look best at his limits. Far more interesting than his mundane norm.

“The Great Papyrus is a beacon of all virtues, including patience, but he would like to know soon just how he has been humorous!!”

Oh dear. Not the best choice of words to sober him up. Sans is well and truly laughing himself blue in the face (and oh, how he would’ve loved to hear that). He manages to grab the other’s upper arm and snicker “humerus” before falling back in on himself, kicking his feet in the air and flinging a slipper into the wall with a soft thud. This would’ve made him laugh even harder were that not physically impossible.

“Is it my sleeping pose??? I’m pretty sure I got that right. Stiff, rectangular, and completely comfortable! That’s Papyrus! And also Mettaton. He hasn’t trademarked it yet. So it’s still safe to say!”

Sans lets out the most undignified snort of his very un-graceful lives and wipes his eyes on his jacket sleeve. “oh god.” Deep, stabilizing breath, still a bit shaky with mirth. “pap… yknow how you. you just. say the word ‘question mark’ like ten times.”

“Yes???”

“you can’t – bro. you can’t sleep if you’re shouting.”

“But they are Z’s!! They are a vital part of the slumber process!”

“oh boy.” He’s trying so hard not to lapse into another chuckle fit. It’s cute, watching him struggle against his instincts. Nostalgic. “uh. maybe try whispering instead?”

“Whispering… Like a flower??”

“uh. sure, like an echo flower. a sleepy one.”

“Do flowers sleep???? I should ask my friend.”

Words fade out, a merciful filter to this barrage of inanity. Even without sound, Sans is markedly brighter, the blue of his soul a rich and vibrant hue. Yet already he is fading, dulling, returning to that overcast shade he carries huddled inside his unwashed hoodie.

Unfair. Unjust, that even in finding these bright flares of presence, they should dwindle so quickly, with little chance to be warmed for the next long search through the cold void.

Insufferable, in fact. Action must be taken.

 

*

 

Outside time, possibilities flit by at a frame rate far beyond parsable. Bedtime stories – no. Glasses of milk – no. Sock sticky notes – no.

Focus. Follow the peaks, and deduce a pattern. Nightmares. Benches. Dust. Despair.

Then, inverse: Together. Peace. Life. Home. Dreams.

Logical conclusion: To induce more spikes, target valleys.

Additional hypothesis: For long-term results, introduce uncertainty. Predict higher potency and longevity from mixed emotional states.

Initiate test.

 

*

 

Fade in.

Sans is doing nothing whatsoever.

He’s lying in bed, arms crossed behind his head, staring idly up at the ceiling. Downstairs is filled with the homey sounds of TV static and raucous laughter. The smell of burning water drifts up, cozy and familiar, like warm blankets. A soft, freshly laundered duvet is tucked around his ribcage, rising and falling rhythmically with his breath. The light through the window is a gentle, timeless glow, and a breeze stirs the puzzle diagrams on the desk before drifting across clean carpet, only to quietly dissipate by the door. The stucco on the ceiling forms silly faces and pretty patterns, less glittery than gemstones but no less captivating and diverse.

All is well.

No nagging sense of unease.

Just peace.

Calm, restful peace.

The kind that comes from giving up all your troubles.

Trouble-free peace.

Everything neat and tidy, a place for everything and everything in its place.

Like a bed. No place for Sans like a bed.

Perfectly suited to one another.

The ideal partnership.

Where else to feel so safe?

So held.

So firmly embraced.

So tightly cradled.

So chokingly enfolded.

So – utterly trapped?

With a heave of terror Sans throws off the covers and bolts out of bed. He stares wild-eyed at the harmless sheets, lying there limp and innocent, making no move to pursue and strangle him. No sign of danger, visible or felt.

So why is there still this weight on his chest?

He rips off his shirt and throws it on the ground by his – lack of socks.

Right. He’d organized them all into his drawers for safekeeping the other day. A long time ago, actually; strange that he hadn’t…remembered…

Sans whirls to his desk and scrabbles through the notes atop it. Puzzle calibration logs, new trap ideas, crosswords, not a single word about timelines. Throwing open the drawers and dumping their contents on the ground reveals nothing but neatly-folded clothes now strewn across the floor. No key.

Flash-step downstairs and he trips over his jacket to faceplant in socks, still in his room. That’s…not supposed to happen. What the fuck is going on?

_Nothing_ , the breeze whispers. The breeze from his closed window.

Sans jumps up and barrels manually through his bedroom door into the hallway. There’s his brother, sitting on the couch, yelling at the television like nothing’s wrong. Sans allows himself a tentative sigh of relief and steps carefully, one at a time, down the stairs, before getting a look at the TV. It’s the usual error screen. The air smells even more like smoke.

“uh, bro,” he squeaks. Weird. He pounds on his sternum and coughs, then tries again. “bro,” his voice still sounds wrong. “i think your water’s burning.”

“Never fear! I am on top of it!” comes his brother’s reply from the kitchen.

“k,” Sans answers automatically before freezing. His eyes lock on the figure in the living room. “papyrus?”

“Yes, brother?” echo two voices at once as his brother’s head swivels to meet his gaze. Unwilling to look away, he holds the stare and feels his way over to the kitchen entry, the trip taking more than twice as long as it should, and when he gets there he has to steel himself before snapping around to face – also his brother.

“Hungry??” Papyrus asks from where he is vigorously stirring a smoking pot. Sans sneaks a glance back at the couch, where Papyrus waves happily at him before berating the television again. “I decided to use some of that stuff you were hoarding!” declares kitchen Papyrus. “Take a look!”

With a nervous glance between rooms again, Sans inches his way toward the stove. “pap…” he peeps, voice twisting again. Swallow. He peers over the lip of the pot.

His brother’s skull grins back at him.

“I’m here! You’re safe! I’ve got you! I’m here, you’re safe, I’ve got you, I’m here, you’re safe…”

Sans gasps awake, lunging up against the binds around his middle and in one smooth reflex coating them in blue and hurling them against the wall and pinning them there. His eye is righteous fire fully ready to smite his enemies and –

“S-sans, it’s me..! It’s Papyrus…!”

His spark winks out and he dives forward to catch his falling brother in a tangle of limbs.

He can’t tell who’s shaking until gentle arms gather him together and start rocking, soft and steady, like they’ve been doing it all their life.

“I’ve got you. I’m here. You’re safe.”

Sans sobs into his brother’s chest, voiceless, real, here, and safe.

Safe for now.

An interesting experiment. Quick checking reveals this event splintering into paths with one constant: all show Sans never uses his power on startling awake again. Useful.

More, although his terror is abating, the lingering doubt and uncertainty are tangible. He’ll check his notes, later, restless and with elevated heartbeat. The next time he smells smoke, his chest will tighten. And his soul will coat over with tired grey just a little more slowly.

A longer lasting energy.

Now for more intensity.

 

*

 

On the other side of never, words go unused.

(Do robots dream of electric sex?

I hate programming this.)

Nothing to say.

Only to do.

 

*

 

Zoom in.

Sans is snoring fit to wake the dead.

He’s curled up, hugging blankets, dreams banal and benign. For once he is not the immediate object of interest here. To his right, guarding against a fall out of bed, is step one. At present, the subject is balancing phone against pillow, mouthing numbers as pixel sheep traverse a picket fence. While not proper sleep, this soft hypnotism seems to be the closest state attained in any relevant scenario. Better, it lends a certain suggestibility that connects much more directly with waking-world action than any dream-state influence could achieve, while still retaining the desirable malleability.

So much waiting, watching.

Time at last for immersing.

Slow, like stepping into a warm bath; here, soaking through shadow into limb; there, pooling in the space of pelvis; steeping, suffusing, spreading and saturating; til finally, the dwelling goes deep as the soul. Next are the wards, careful, shielding, deflecting the bright glare of consciousness into black-walled passageways that steal its glitter. On it shines, unaware of how its light warps around unseen bends, full of trust in its own lucidity even as it fades into the dim glow of the sleepwalking.

A tap, at the center, and power wells up, ready to be siphoned off and crystallized into will.

First: Extend arm, and order glove to leave hand.

Mm. Minor miscalculation. Adjust to item parameters.

Again: Extend arm, and believe glove is already removing itself.

A small power surge runs electric from core to naked fingertips as bulky orange glove levitates over the bed. Another expectation of its behavior, and it neatly folds and rests atop the room’s desk.

Repeat process for other hand and cellular phone, clearing obstacles from work area. Consciousness barely stirs, voice markedly smaller than its owner’s. Mute it anyway. No distractions, not for this.

Reach out, and gather Sans to chest. The vibrations of his snoring tingle through ribs and spine, alive, connections no un-solid could feel. Stay, savor, experience the meeting of two bodies from one perspective. Dwell awhile. Notice breath, tension, the novelty of having edges.

Even this quickly turns boring. Hard to have rising action while inactive, and the suspense is long over-built.

Tighten arms around him, and waken voice.

“I’m here.”

He twitches, snore catching, then stills, smoothing back into the blur of unreality. Tighten.

“You’re safe.”

Such a pretty smile, flitting across his features with unguarded grace. Tighten.

“I’ve got you.”

Smile falters, mind and body stirring, meeting unexpected constraints. Tighten.

_“I’m here.”_

Tone sets off alarm bells and Sans is jerking conscious, already freezing his struggle until he can assess the situation like the good brother he is. His eyes come into focus and he tense-relaxes, stiff and unsure.

“papyrus?”

“y-you’re hurting me.”

And release.

“You’re safe.”

Cup base of skull, thumb rubbing circles at the juncture of neck, barely slipping under the collar of protective cloth. Sans shivers, his gaze questioning, searching. Smile back through his brother’s teeth, projecting gentle confidence, and trail a hand down to rest at his waist.

“bro?” His voice cracks, and the way that makes him tense up is achingly satisfying. Press index finger to his teeth, and believe magic is gushing through into his mouth and filling him from tip to toe.

And so it is.

He twitches, fear lighting up his left eye for the brief moment before both his sockets fill up with not-his magic. A solid, single tone, it seeps into all two-hundred-and-six of his bones and weighs them to the bed, heavy with gravity. Consulting the dreamy life inside this body conjures up the appropriate phrase.

“You’re blue now.”

Sans is making a new face, a mix of bewilderment and terror and uneasy trust with just a dash of that long-lost curiosity. It’s damnably potent, heady even, the kind of rush that demands every response at once: freezing in place to capture it fully; instantly replaying it over and over; being swept onward with the surging tide.

Mm. Well. Time elsewhere for pausing.

His body is heavy, now, but still easily adjusted. Nothing intrusive, not yet; just laying him out, taking away his bundled clutch of sheets, adjusting pillows to make him comfortable. It helps that he still seems wary of his voice, like its betrayal could throw him into another nightmare. Of course, he hardly needs speech to communicate his confusion and concern. Such an open book, after everything is said and done.

He watches, hyperalert and unmoving. Slow, deliberate, reach out a hand and trace it down his face. Pet thumb along cheekbone, rhythmic, soothing, watching him back. Slip a little higher, just under socket rim, and smile when he goes stiff. Bend in, nice and easy, and hug him to vessel. Whisper.

“I’ve got you.”

Stay like that, until he goes slack. Then lower him gentle back to bed, all unspoken reassurance, and tease a hand under the band of his shorts.

His hips buck up automatically before being slammed back down by blue gravity. There’s that wild look to his eyes again and it’s maddening to move this slow, not even touching him just working that hand past the elastic and hovering there, suspended. Drink in the conflict in his everything, the half-resolve to push up and flee, the strangled spark of want, the disbelief and hope and burning shame. Feel it churning, all the possibilities racing through him white-hot and exhausting, so burned out with calculating and judging and deciding and existing. And cherish the _click_ when he stutters out a wordless noise.

Dip down and touch him.

He cries out, hand jerking to cover his mouth only to be pinned back down by its own weight before it’s halfway there. With free hand, take his wrist and stretch it up, over his head, and let it fall to pillow. Trace a finger back down his shivering arm, then up clavicle and neck to touch at his teeth. Wrap lower hand around sacrum and grip tight, and as he gasps open slip between teeth and into mouth. When he bites in reflex, squeeze tighter and press further as he moans open again. Force fingers deep as they’ll go while he gags around them, shaking and bound in place. Watch tears form at the corners of his eyes, and regret not having a third hand for his neck. Stroke down anyway, and continue through his convulsing and his choked, hiccupping cries, then freeze and press in hard when his eyes start to blank. Let him twitch and shudder and try to regain friction and swallow, then pull hands away altogether.

Still he quakes, struggling to hold himself together, tiny jumps of body rewarded by the magic pressing him back down. Watch him pull his eyes back into focus, wait for him to look up beseeching and unsure. Touch a finger to his tears and notice how small he flinches. Locking eye contact, take those tear-wet fingers and press them to his brother’s pelvis.

Relish the way his chest hitches in noiseless response. Rub into bone and unlock vocals, little “mm”s and shy “ah”s as one hand tugs cloth half-down hip and the other works in and out around ridges and valleys. Put on a show of enjoying this body in front of him. Let hips arch up, fingers teasing, gaze still steady and burning. Catch his hand when he tries to inch it closer to his groin; shake head in knowing disapproval. Drag his arm up and drop it atop the other one, limbs nicely pinned together above his head by concentrated gravity. Appreciate the pretty pose this makes, all trapped and spread out and panting. Dig fingers deeper into own pelvic arch and let moans escape at the grating of bone on bone.

Allow host to use voice, all dazed and blissed and dreamy and wondering.

“Oh….. S-sans, I never – ah….”

Watch as he works his jaw in wordless response, all unable to whisper his brother’s name. Melt under his distress, all palpable and hopelessly hopeful and finally, _finally_ passionate. Let the electricity of sensation crackle through gripped spine and shake this mortal frame, its owner crying out in dizzied ecstasy. Plant hands on the bed and ride out the tremors, breathing loud and uneven. Meet his eyes and dare him to ask.

“p-…”

Such a fragile sound, empty and afraid and half-broken. Stare him down til he’s squirming, looks away, looks back, opens and closes mouth again. Keep staring. Look on expectantly while he gathers his effort again.

“p..please,” he croaks, wincing, voice all warped with wanting. Pretend to hesitate; thrill when he lurches up to be slammed down again and whine, all flushed with magic and heat and furious shame. All trapped in the present and filled with need.

_“please,”_ he whimpers, eyes burning.

Give him what he wants.

Spread his legs and press fingers to fabric, rubbing the cotton against his arch. When he cries out in gratitude and hunger, shift to press knee between his legs, pushing in and encouraging him to grind stuttered against it, fingers still coaxing from the other side. Lean over him and slip free hand under his shirt, trailing up spine, knuckles brushing against the inside of ribs, and as he writhes and manages to stutter out his brother’s name, seize his throat from within. He chokes and sputters and jerks harder, arms falling back useless under their own weight, hands clutching pillow. Press, press til his body finds the rhythm despite himself, rocking and lulling and cracking his voice open to spill out unbidden.

Get him moaning fit to shake apart.

No more resistance, all trembling loud and longing, unseeing and un-becoming and gloriously lost. Up, and up, and past that, and further, just there, just here and together and perfect and _alive_ and—

“S-.. Sans…?”

Ex-host is peering down, bewildered by the scene under him.

“Was… what was I…?”

Shaky, unweighted, Sans struggles to pull himself upright, breath hitching in a strangled noise as he bumps against knee. His soul is incandescent, light pulsing in waves of his own blue. The air tastes of sweet and salt and tang and bitter and oh so savory.

“papyrus..?” His voice is scratchy and wobbly. The pinpricks of his eyes are so small.

“Brother, are you all right? What happened, did I – was I –”

He cuts off as soon as he notices the tears welling up, and swoops in for a tight hug, squeezing when Sans half-sobs into his chest.

“It’s okay, this is real, you’re all right, we’re here now, it’s me, you’re home. I’m here.”

Sans stiffens.

“You’re safe.”

Fade out.

 

*

 

I’ve got you.

**Author's Note:**

> Well.
> 
> Slightly less dull now, perhaps.
> 
> Back into the void, til that next source of heat.


End file.
